


Nowhere Near The Truth

by Louis_the_Snake



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Bottom Julian Bashir, Cardassian Culture, First Time, Julian Bashir and Elim Garak's Book Club, M/M, Oblivious Julian Bashir, Top Elim Garak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:36:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28084800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Louis_the_Snake/pseuds/Louis_the_Snake
Summary: Bashir finds some of the clothes he's given Garak to mend come back smelling like Garak. So he finds more clothes to give Garak.Garak wants Bashir to appreciate cardassian poetry.Title from 'Up To No Good'-the HoosiersThis work kind of got out of hand.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 3
Kudos: 99





	Nowhere Near The Truth

Bashir didn’t keep many outfits. He replicated any clothes he needed and tossed them into the reclimator when he was done. Any, that is, save for a few nice tailored suits from Garak’s. You couldn’t spend lunch with a tailor weekly for years without collecting at least one nice suit.  
Whatever Garak had been, he was now an excellent tailor, with an eye for what suited Bashir’s form.  
So when Bashir found a hole in one of his suits- a lovely Turquoise and Lazuli outfit with coattails and a mandarin collar- he brought it in to his tailor immediately. It was important to him that he support Garak’s business as well as maintain the suit.  
“Doctor, I’m afraid I don’t have time to chat. I’ve got several bridesmaid dresses I’m working on for an andorian joining ceremony, I don’t know why they didn’t ask multiple tailors to assist them with this, but far be it from me to question them.”  
“Oh, Garak, I’m sure everyone from here to Vulcan is lining up to give you orders. I’m not here to chat, actually, I have a repair order to ask from you. You remember this little outfit you made for me?”  
Garak dropped the silk he’d been measuring out and hurried to take the hangar from Bashir, inspecting the holes.  
“What could you possibly have done to it, it’s positively shredded!”  
“It looks like we may have a vole or two loose in the habitat ring, and they may have picked up a taste for your fine fabrics.”  
“Vile things. Don’t worry, my dear doctor, I’ll have this patched up as soon as I can find the time to.”  
“No rush, Garak, take all the time you need. I just want to maintain the outfits I’ve bought from you.” Bashir resisted the urge to pat Garak’s arm.  
Garak hung the outfit up behind his counter and got back to his silks, so Bashir left. 

When Bashir got his suit back, the holes were gone, as though they’d never been there in the first place. The tight weave of the pants had to have been hand-darned somehow, and it was beautifully disguised in the pattern.  
“Sorry it took me so long, doctor, I was rather swamped when you asked me to repair it.”  
“Oh, thank you Garak, this is wonderful! How much do I owe you?”  
“It was a simple repair doctor, don’t worry about it.”  
“Come now, Garak, I have to insist. I don’t want you losing any business on me.”  
“You don’t have to twist my leg about it. Materials, time, I’d say that should only be four slips, fair?”  
“More than fair. Here, take five, and Thank you. I mean it.”  
“Now, how far have you gotten in Tozal’s collected poems?” 

There was a problem. The suit smelled like redleaf tea, moss, phaser fire, natural reptilian oils, kanar, wet stone, like Garak. Not even Garak’s shop smelled quite like him, so the suit had to have been held close to his body or maybe kept in his quarters for an extended time.  
Bashir sat in his quarters, his nose buried in the coat. His mind was up to trouble, lit up like a bajoran festival wreath with the thought of holding Garak this close.  
“Dangerous.” He sighed, then stood and replicated some black tea.  
Maybe the caffeine would kick his mind out of the gutter.  
Bashir was back to Garak’s in the next week. He’d torn a hole along the seam of his pilot’s jacket when his holoprogram suddenly cut off. Rom had apologized profusely, but it didn’t actually hurt too much to fall out of his chair onto the floor of the suite. The tear was more serious than the bruise he’d received, and even then, it was a basic seam failure on a replicated jacket. He still wanted it patched up at Garak’s. Not that he was hoping for it to smell like his suit had, he doubted that, but he was thinking about keeping a few more garments around.  
“What’s this, doctor? Some holo-adventure go awry?”  
“I’m afraid the adventure wasn’t quite as exciting as it looks, there was a suite malfunction. I know this is just a replicated jacket, but it’s seen me through a couple adventures and I was thinking of keeping it for the memories, maybe putting some patches on it. Do you mind fixing the tear?” Bashir surprised himself at how much of that had been the truth. He’d intended to lie.  
“Not at all. It’s a simple construction and an easy fix. I wouldn’t want to waste such a warm-looking garment.”  
“I promise you it’s very warm indeed, and it works great for keeping out biting winds and keeping the chill off one’s neck. It’s perfect for the simulated altitudes O’Brian and I enjoy.”  
“I’m glad it serves you well on your adventures.”  
Bashir eyed Garak.  
“You’re so cold here, why don’t you wear something on your neck? I’m sure you could find a scarf to match your outfits, they all have such a wide open neckline.”  
“I’m afraid that wearing anything around my neck is quite out of the question, doctor, I wouldn’t stand to be caught dead wearing such a thing as a scarf.”  
“Why ever not?”  
“The neck is a very sensitive area for cardassians. It could get caught in my sewing, or in a door! No, I think I’ll stick to my open necklines for now.”  
“I see. Just a thought, Garak, I meant no offense.”  
“None taken,” Garak tucked the coat up under his arm, “I’ll have this repaired in just a day or two, if you insist on paying again we can call it two slips?”  
“Of course I’ll pay again, I’m asking you to do work for me. I want to pay for it!”  
“Hm.” Garak grunted noncommittally. 

The jacket smelled like Garak when Julian got it back. He ended up curled up with it in his bed, smiling stupidly and drinking the remnants of the blood wine Jadzia had given to him a while ago. His daydreams of cuddling Garak got very specific very quickly.  
It was stupid of him to harbor a crush like this on a man who was so obviously bad for him, but sometimes you just have to get burnt to remember not to play with fire.  
Julian imagined counting the ridges down either side of Garak’s neck, kissing his chufa. He imagined a good kiss to the tender front of his neck could knock Garak speechless.  
Every fantasy just made Julian want more from Garak, despite himself. He’d had crushes before, but not with anyone who spoke only in riddles. If he tried to confess directly he’d likely be misinterpreted. He had to approach it from an angle Garak wasn’t going to see coming.  
That’s why he ordered another suit. 

“What’s the occasion?”  
“Oh, no occasion, Garak, I just thought it might be nice to get a fourth suit for my closet. I’ve never kept this many clothes before, you’ll have to excuse me if I’m being a bit frivolous about it.”  
“I assure you it doesn’t bother me at all. Hold your arms out?” Garak circled him with the tape.  
“Why are you measuring me again? It can’t have been six months since you last did.” Bashir felt silly trying not to sniff -actually sniff- Garak.  
“You’re only 30, humans don’t stop growing well into their adulthoods, you know that. Besides, I think you might’ve put on a few pounds since our last session.” Garak smiled. There was no malice in his voice, despite the veiled insult.  
“Oh, I’m sure I haven’t.”  
“You needn’t be ashamed, doctor, a little weight is healthy on all animals. A little padding to protect us from bumps and scrapes and starvation. I’m sure you’ve noticed I have a rather healthy padding myself!”  
“I’ve noticed you’re not half as ‘well-padded’ as you’d like me to believe.”  
“That is a very cardassian observation of you, well done.”  
Garak set the tape down and smoothed the front of Bashir’s uniform with his hands. From here, Julian could see the manicured claws and calluses that had smoothed some scales. Garak’s hands suited a tailor. Or a spy. He had calluses from an auto-stitcher but also a disruptor rifle. It was all so perfectly Garak.  
“I’ll have to think up something lovely for you to try.”  
“As much as I trust your fashion sense, Garak, I do have a request.”  
“What’s that?”  
“No high collars! I noticed each of the suits you’ve made me has a collar that covers most of my neck. I’d like to try a more cardassian fashion, if you don’t mind the sentiment.”  
“And that’s your only request?”  
“Yes, other than that, you can do whatever you see fit.”  
Garak’s eyes lit up with mischief. Bashir suddenly regretted his statement.

Over the course of the next few weeks, Bashir felt anticipation mounting. They had their customary lunches together, and discussed poetry.  
“ ‘The ocean craves my bones, washes them smooth as sea-stones. The violet depths lap at my legs, pull me down into their sweetest embrace. As sure as my father pours out his tea dregs, I lose my breath in the most secretive place.’ Quite intimate language for a poem about the ocean.”  
“As always, you’re missing the point doctor. Tozal loved Cardassia like you love to help people. The ocean was his lover, in a way. I assure you the language is entirely warranted.”  
Garak never mentioned what sort of outfit he was making for him, but of course, that was the point. 

Bashir found himself in the strangest outfit. It had the wide cardassian neckline like he wanted, but also cutouts down his back. The tunic- or was it a dress? Fell to just above his knees in the front and just above his ankles in the back. His new tights were heavily decorated and had embroidered flowers on the inner ankles. The colors- oh, he was drowning in lilac and seafoam, with pops of a red that was almost magenta. The sheer sleeves fell over his arms like clouds. Garak wrapped a white scarf over his neck, admiring both his handiwork and the model he’d placed it on.  
“What do you think?”  
“The scarf is a nice touch but isn’t it a little feminine?”  
Bashir smiled to himself. Garak was flirting with him. The scarf was a way of appreciation for their little argument over what he should wear, to show that he took it in good faith but also that he was still insulted.  
“Not at all! It shows off your broad shoulders and the muscles you have lining your spine. You look wonderful, if I do say so myself.”  
“What kind of fabric is this, Garak? It’s softer than silk!” Bashir ran a hand over his chest. He felt rather beautiful dressed this way, like a jewel set in a soft present box.  
“Trade secret, I’m afraid, Now, this should be perfect for you to wear dancing, to find yourself a nice mate, you hear me? I know things have been going well with Leeta, so take her on a date wearing this sometime, I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.” Garak tittered to himself as he marked the outfit for minor alterations with some pins.  
Deflection. Garak was offering him an out to the conversation, a way to avoid rejecting him.  
“Garak, Leeta and I are just friends. I don’t know where you got the idea that we were anything more.”  
“Oh I see, well, all the more reason to wear this alone! You’ll be certain to net yourself a fine mate, provided you can keep your mouth shut long enough to attract them.”  
Bashir laughed and batted his eyelashes in a way that had never failed to catch the eye.  
“Well, I’m sure I won’t have to look too far.” He spoke breathily, placing his hand on Garak’s shoulder.  
If the spy didn’t return that serve, he simply wasn’t interested in him.  
“No, my dear doctor, you won’t. Plenty of wonderful people come through this station.”  
Julian had no idea what that could mean, so he begged clarification:  
“Some even stay.”  
“That they do.” Garak turned to grab some more pins.  
“Garak please look at me.”  
Those blue eyes looked into his and Garak smiled vacantly, thinking of a few too many things.  
“What do cardassians find attractive, hm? I know you argue to flirt, I know you adore dedication to one’s work, one’s nation, but I mean physically. Tell me, am I attractive by cardassian standards?” Julian tucked his curls behind his ears in the mirror.  
“We aren’t a hive-mind, doctor, if you’ll recall, some of us find Bajorans particularly attractive, and others are at best indifferent.”  
“You know I mean cultural beauty standards, Garak, certainly there’s an ideal? What do cardassians think is beautiful?”  
“Large eyes. Slim necks. Darker hair, simple things I suppose.”  
“What about you, specifically?”  
“I did lend you those poems, doctor?”  
“Yes, but what does a book of poems about the natural beauty of your home planet have to do with beauty standards?”  
“Please tell me you didn’t accept my explanation at face value.”  
“Hm?”  
“It’s a book of love poems, dear. Tozal spoke of his many lovers, comparing them to the places they made love.”  
“Hm! So why did you deny my initial reading of it?”  
“For the conversation.”  
“Then, ‘breathless, braced for the cold in a pool of molten steam, I soak in the warmth and the light of the stars as I sink below the tide’, describes both a hot spring and his lover?”  
“Indeed.” Garak licked his lips, leaning closer to Bashir’s neck.  
“I may need to re-read those, if you don’t mind lending me the data rod again.”  
“Not at all.”  
Bashir leaned back against Garak’s chest, watching him in the mirror. He could smell that same scent once again, only on Garak, but he wanted it all around him.  
“Have you ever written any poetry yourself, Garak? I think you’d be good at it. You enjoy wordplay, you’re a skilled warrior.”  
“Warrior?”  
“In some earth cultures, being a good warrior requires that one is a good poet, a balanced soul sort of ideal.”  
“I’m no warrior, doctor, though I do have to admit a certain desire to balance my soul. I’ll have to run some poetry by you sometime.”  
“I’d be honored, Garak.”  
“Hmmm.”  
Bashir waited for Garak to peel himself away so he could start removing this lovely garment just before he closed the curtain. It was only polite to offer Garak the chance to peek after flirting so well and giving up so much information.  
“Tea or mud, wine or blood, I toast. The flames rise past my eyes and I, a willing moth, fall into them. Shine like the stars are mine, divine like a song’s last line, a freely granted home inside.” Garak intoned, like a spell, against his neck.  
“-Garak?”  
“A poem. What do you think?”  
“It’s certainly intriguing. If you’d like, we can discuss it later? Over dinner, perhaps?”  
“That sounds lovely. 2100?”  
Two hours after his shift. One hour to decompress and one hour to anticipate.  
“I’ll see you then.”

Bashir tidied his quarters up. They had never been a mess, especially nowhere near the mess O’Brian was inclined to, but he did pick up a few data rods off his table and put the couch pillows back in their places. When Garak arrived, the room was immaculate, and Bashir was dressed simply and comfortably in his undershirt and some simple black slacks.  
“Doctor Bashir! I hope I’m not late!”  
That was a joke. It was 2100 on the dot, and they both knew it.  
“I brought you some Kanar, I assume we’re going to be having some bizarre human dish, I wanted something a little more familiar.”  
“That we are, if fish is too bizarre for you. It’s just some replicator salmon and vegetables, though I will ask it to be served hotter than it usually is, try not to burn your tongue.”  
They sat at Bashir’s dining table while he set out the meal for them, altogether too far apart.  
“Cardassian poetry is difficult for me to grasp, I don’t even particularly like human poetry.”  
“It must be so difficult for you.”  
“I’m not trying to complain. I’m trying to apologize. The nuances of cardassian language and poetry sometimes escape me, I don’t mean to sound obtuse when we discuss them.”  
“Oh doctor, your obliviousness is part of your charm. I find it interesting to see what you’ll pick up on.”  
“Thank you for understanding. Now, what was that you said before- ‘Tea or mud, wine or blood,-’ ?”  
Asking was pointless. They both had eidetic memories.  
“ ‘- I toast. The flames rise past my eyes, and I, a willing moth, fall into them.’”  
“‘Sine like the stars are mine, divine like a song’s last line, a freely granted home inside.’ Let’s analyze from the beginning, yeah?”  
“Of course.” Garak began to eat his fish delicately, cutting it into small pieces.  
“Tea, mud, wine, blood- comparing bitter but sweet drinks to basic and constructive fluids, right?” Julian poured the Kanar.  
“Well, it’s also something one might want to drink to things one would rather not.”  
“Comparing good to gross?” the laugh snuck into his voice.  
“Now that’s an oversimplification, perhaps you should stick to your initial analysis. ‘Mud’ in cardassian has a symbolic meaning as well, similar to human literary references to dust, as an origin. And of course, the blood of cardassia refers to her people.”  
“What about tea and wine?” Julian had to wait for his salmon to cool.  
“Bittersweet, like you mentioned, drinks for conversation with others.”  
“Is there conflict or conflation of the two? Conversation and duty, right? So like, someone to talk to and then duty to the state.”  
“There’s part of the point, doctor! Whether it’s confusion or choice is irrelevant, you’re supposed to be confused as to which it might be.”  
“And of course, you raise a toast to that, something of an acceptance to the absurd.”  
“Precisely.”  
“Alright, at least the next line seems a little more straightforward- ‘the flames rise past my eyes and I, a willing moth, fall into them.’ - temptation towards a dangerous fate and then acceptance of it.”  
“Flames are merely dangerous to humans, but on cardassia flames are also comfortable. Like a warm bed, we enjoy volcanic pools. Sure, temptation is dangerous, but all temptation is dangerous, fire isn’t nearly as bad as it is for humans.”  
“So, let’s put those together, the temptation of the conversant is warm and safe.” Julian rewarded himself with a little bite of his salmon, which was still hot as hell.  
“Very good doctor!”  
Bashir couldn’t help but feel like a student again, being praised for being led to the answer the teacher wanted. That made him regret rewarding himself. He drank.  
“Isn’t the word ‘willing’ here important? You want to fall for the conversant.”  
“Perhaps.”  
“Oh come on, Garak, humor me.” Bashir gulped some more kanar.  
“I think I humor you quite enough.” Garak sipped his kanar back at him with a little smirk.  
“Alright then, let’s move on. ‘Shine like the stars are mine,’ .”  
“What is shining, doctor?” It was a challenge.  
“Well, it’s either the person you’re referring to, or is it the ‘home’ in the last line there?”  
“Good question.”  
“Come, Garak, work with me here.”  
“Isn’t it more fun that I don’t?” Garak’s tongue flicked over his bottom lip before he grinned.  
Bashir ate his salmon quickly now that it was the right temperature.  
“‘Divine like a song’s last line-’ I like that one quite a bit.” Garak sipped more kanar.  
“I thought Cardassians didn’t worship anything?”  
“Our ancestors, the Hibitians, they did, some of the linguistic traits stuck around, the idea of holiness, something along the lines of perfection, you know how it is.”  
“So, shiny, twinkly, warm, perfect, and- how does that last line go?”  
“‘A freely granted home inside.’, doctor.” Garak put his fork down, leaning in and crossing his legs, watching closely as Bashir thought.  
“Living in their head rent-free, hm?” Bashir remembered something he’d read.  
“Pardon me?” Garak’s face became a mask of polite confusion.  
“They always think of you, so you’re at home in their mind.”  
“That isn’t quite-”  
“No, I think I figured it out! Your poem, it’s about someone who loves you- an excellent conversationalist, but who it was dangerous for you to love back. What, did you get a crush on a target while you were in the Order?” Bashir grinned, getting up. He wasn’t that hungry anyway, he wanted closer to his friend.  
“Please, doctor, I was never in the Order, I’m a simple tailor.”  
“This is a very romantic poem, Garak, did you ever get to read it to her?”  
Bashir played dumb as he sat in Elim’s lap.  
“Isn’t ‘her’ a little presumptuous of you, doctor?”  
“So it was a man, then?”  
“I didn’t say that.”  
“Of course you didn’t, Garak. You wouldn’t tell me the truth if I knew it.”  
“If you already knew it, what would be the point?”  
“Sometimes saying something is also doing something, like, when a human says they promise, that’s them promising, it’s an act as well as a statement.”  
“You are aware that cardassians have that custom as well.”  
“Right, but do you tell others that you love them in the same manner. Is it a promise, as well?”  
“Not exactly.”  
“Saying that you love someone is the point, regardless of whether or not it’s known.”  
“Fascinating,” Garak licked his lips once again, “I think I’ll stick with the cardassian way.”  
“What’s that?”  
“Once you’ve learned someone is attracted to you, and you to them, sleep with them, marry them, and write poetry vague enough they never know if you mean them or some new lover you have.”  
Bashir laid his head on Garak’s shoulder and started counting his neck scales.  
“Doctor, don’t touch those without permission.”  
“May I touch your scales, Garak?”  
“Why ever would you want to?”  
“I’m counting them. I’m going to take notes on you.”  
“You haven’t been taking notes on me this whole time?”  
“None of them had the number of scales you have in your neck ridges, Garak.”  
“Very well, then, count them. Don’t touch them.”  
“Then take off your shirt, Garak. I want to see where they stop.”  
It was much like any other conversation they had, a sort of tennis match.  
“If you insist.”  
It was easy to forget what he’d asked Garak to do until Garak fixed his posture and moved him back on his lap, closer to his knees, so he could grab the hem of his tunic and remove it. Garak had picked him up by his hips like he weighed nothing and maneuvered him so casually.  
Once the tunic was off, however, Bashir was happy to lean against the rough grey of his chest and inspect his neck, carefully counting the ridges and running his hands over Garak’s ribs. The curiously smooth scales there were enough to keep him from touching Garak’s neck again. It didn’t take long to count the ridges on his neck, they were rather large, but Julian counted them again and again.  
“It is much too cold in here for this, doctor Bashir.”  
“Computer, raise temperature by five degrees centigrade, and lower lights to 20%.”  
“Thank you.” Garak purred.  
Bashir soon found it much too warm for his tastes, so he took off his shirt as well.  
“Garak, finish your kanar, I want to try something.”  
“What would that be?”  
Julian leaned in and kissed the flat of Garak’s chufa without warning.  
“Nothing much, don’t worry, but I do need you to finish your drink and come to my bed.”  
“If you’re thinking of giving me a medical examination after thoughrilly seducing me-”  
“So you admit you are seduced, Elim?”  
The sudden use of Garak’s given name seemed to catch him off-guard, because he growled and stood, holding Julian to his chest.  
“Julian. If you do not want to sleep with me I need you to tell me at once.”  
Finally! Julian laughed, leaning into his grey captor and kissing the flushed ridge on his neck. Garak growled.  
“I’d prefer if we could make it to the bed, but if not, the couch, the wall, the table would even suffice, Garak, I’m not picky.”  
Julian pulled his arms up to ruffle Garak’s hair, enjoying those soft hands on his hips- and then it was just the one hand for a moment- and then he found himself laid out on the table, his knees around Garak’s hips. He laughed.  
“You are infuriating, Julian.” Elim began licking the sweat off Julian’s chest, working his way down as he undid the fly.  
“Who was that poem about?”  
Garak rose to look Julian in the eye.  
“It isn’t obvious?”  
“I just thought about it again. It sounded like it was about someone you knew before your exile, I thought-”  
Julian was silenced by a rough kiss. Garak had gotten his fly undone and was tugging his pants down easily, then his underwear, leaving Bashir completely naked on his dining table, while Garak of course was still half-dressed.  
Once he had Bashir naked, Garak didn’t waste anymore time. He undid his own fly and freed his erection (conveniently pressing Julian down so he couldn’t see) and then slick fingers were on Julian’s cock. They explored over his thighs, his stomach, eventually settling on one hand around his erection and the other gently working him open, all while Garak’s tongue explored his throat.  
He pulled back to gasp for air, pressing a third finger into Julian and smirking.  
“It’s been my experience that when people list places they wouldn’t mind being fucked, they mean to fuck them on every surface they list. Does that sound about right?”  
“Garak, please, don’t tease me just-” Julian whined as Garak curled a finger against that lovely bundle of nerves that made everything go white for a moment.  
“Don’t worry, you’ll get to have me as many times as you like Julian. You’ll be pleased to know Cardassian refractory periods are barely worth mentioning.”  
Julian whined again. He was pleased to hear that. He’d be more pleased if Garak would just fuck him already, rather than keep him in anticipation for what felt like ages.  
He got his wish posthaste. Before Julian realized Garak had removed his fingers, the head of his cock was pressing into him. 

By the time Julian had to be awake the next morning, they had, in fact, defiled every surface Julian had listed- and quite a few more.  
Something told him that this first time wouldn’t be the last, either.  
(The note promising another dinner date next week didn’t hurt.)


End file.
